


Tropical Vacation (Sun, Sand, Sea, and Superman)

by cattyk8



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: 3+1 fic, Aquaman is a cockblocker, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, Kaiju, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Explicit Sex, Secret Identities, Secret Relationship, Superbat Reverse Bang, Whump, because, because injury is the only way to make Batman take a break, flirty deities, naked deities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8
Summary: Or, three times Clark made Bruce take a vacation in a tropical paradise, and one time Bruce returned the favor.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 41
Kudos: 242
Collections: Superbat Reverse Bang 2020





	Tropical Vacation (Sun, Sand, Sea, and Superman)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Santheum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santheum/gifts).



> This fic was written for the [SuperBat Reverse Bang 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/superbatreversebang2020), and as such has awesome art attached to it! The banner you see here is just a small preview, so click on it to go to the actual art!
> 
> Thank you to the awesome artist [Santheum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santheum), who provided the visual prompt for this fic, which you can see [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560092).
> 
> Much gratitude as well to the awesome mods and members of the ManManBangBang Discord Server, who helped me through quarantine and SRB craziness!
> 
> And, as always, I have many, many thanks to offer at the feet of my amazing betas, [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdt) and [serephent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephent).

[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560092)

* * *

# 1\. Malaysia

There’s a reason why Batman is known as the World’s Greatest Detective. That reason is precisely why Superman comes to him for help when he, as Clark Kent, stumbles upon an international human trafficking ring while investigating a lead on what was _supposed_ to be a story on Metropolis’s elite clubbing scene.

The Man of Steel is no slouch at investigative work himself, and he’s able to rout the ring’s American operations, leading the MCPD to make no fewer than four dozen arrests in a single day. But when it becomes clear that the ring’s supply chain tracks back to several countries in Southeast Asia, Clark knows he simply doesn’t have the knowledge, or the connections, to clean up the rest of the ring.

Fortunately, he also knows which member of the Justice League _does_.

Fortunately, that person happens to be his _boyfriend_.

“The problem isn’t making the arrests,” Bruce says, after reviewing Clark’s intel and collecting some—okay, a lot—of his own. “The problem is that we’ve tracked the ring down to operations in Malaysia, Laos, and Myanmar, which are Tier 2-Watch List or Tier 3 on compliance with the Trafficking Victims Protection Act.”

Clark nods. “Yeah, if they’re not compliant with the TVPA, we can arrest a hundred human traffickers only to have new ones rise to replace them within a year.”

“Try a couple of months. We’re going to have to work with some subtlety here; we’ll need to work out which officials are in bed with the traffickers, and which might be open to a little JL influence.”

Or an injection of cash or strategic partnerships into politicians’ pet projects courtesy of Batman Incorporated and/or Wayne Enterprises subsidiaries, as it happens. Clark isn’t too happy about that, or the fact that one of the deals comes with a personal appearance by Bruce Wayne, who glad-hands his way through the press. And of course Bruce gets the Daily Planet to send his favorite reporter to cover the event.

Conveniently, they are booked into a tiny, yet luxurious, resort that’s nestled into a rainforest on a private island in the Strait of Malacca. Well, Bruce is, and he handwaves his way through Clark’s protests about corporate budgets and per diems. Clark reckons Perry will be happy to have saved the cost of a hotel stay. Not to mention the airfare, since Bruce sends an email for him to forward to his editor, inviting him to ride on the Wayne private jet.

They’re booked for a week, and apart from covering the event for the business pages, Clark has also been tasked with covering Brucie Wayne’s tropical vacation (“Get me good pics or don’t bother showing your face back here, Clark,” gossip columnist Cat Grant has threatened him) and a travelogue for the Planet’s lifestyle magazine.

For his _other_ job, Superman and Batman have scheduled their takedown of the trafficking ring for three days after the WE event, when Bruce is scheduled to take a day on a yacht Alfred has rented to serve as a discreet base of operations for them.

They spend two days doing touristy things with beautiful models and influencers hanging off Bruce’s arms while Clark diligently takes photos, jots down quotes and notes, and surreptitiously keeps an ear out for illegal activities.

They visit touristy spots in Kuala Lumpur and Malacca, including Bruce wining and dining him “in the clouds” at the KL Tower after they enjoy a helicopter tour of the megacity. The thought of the costs makes Clark faint at the knees, but Bruce just waves his concerns away with an airy, well, air.

Then they move to the yacht, which is flashy but exactly the kind of thing a playboy billionaire would cruise around in. Bruce drills their game plans into Clark’s head until he could recite them in his sleep. When their takedown date arrives, they’ve prepared for 95 percent of what might occur. Of course, it’s always that last 5 percent that messes you up.

As per usual, everything goes smoothly. Until it doesn’t. And it isn’t even Tuesday.

Superman takes on the operations in Laos and Myanmar, seeing as he is able to travel farther in shorter spans of time. Bruce takes on the den of traffickers operating out of Kuala Lumpur’s Chow Kit area. Clark doesn’t find out until later, when he’s watching footage from the camera embedded in the cowl, exactly how things go down.

The Bat’s interrogations confirm the identity of a local crime lord, who has surrounded himself with mercenaries packing assault rifles with armor-piercing rounds and an assortment of blades.

Typically, Batman places himself between the thugs and the Royal Malaysian Police’s Special Actions Unit who’ve come to make the official arrests. But it turns out some of the women present aren’t trafficking victims, but there voluntarily, and they manage to distract him enough to throw him off his game.

He takes out fifteen henchmen, one corpulent crime lord, and three mistresses of said crime lord. In the process, he acquires a gunshot wound to the shoulder, a knife wound to the arm that _just_ misses an artery, and a medium-grade concussion.

Just before the RMP storms the compound, Bruce slips into the shadows of an alleyway just off Lorong Haji Taib, in the heart of one of Kuala Lumpur’s red light districts. He shoots his grapple and manages to load himself into a Batwing on stealth mode, hovering right above the alley, and passes out before the hydraulics on the plane’s door mechanism have finished hissing closed.

Clark arrives in time to help Alfred patch him up.

* * *

He wakes up the next day, tucked into the wide bed in the yacht’s main cabin, a scowling Superman in the chair next to him. Well, a scowling Clark Kent, anyway, but Clark’s left the glasses off even if he’s dressed in tiny blue shorts in a red-and-black plaid-print t-shirt. God help him, why do people even _make_ plaid-print t-shirts? Bruce closes his eyes against the way it makes his head hurt.

Oh, wait, that’s probably his concussion. Still. Plaid t-shirt. It’s not even made of plaid; Bruce can see from here it’s made of cheap cotton, but uses a plaid print. Because why.

“Clark,” he groans. “Please.”

Immediately, Clark has a gentle hand on his shoulder, another clutching his own. “What is it, Bruce? Do you need another dose of painkillers? Although I know Alfred wanted to check on you and get you fed first.”

“Please, for the love of god, change your shirt.”

“My—wait, what?”

“It hurts my eyes.”

“Bruce—”

“Far be it for me to indulge in Master Bruce’s dramatics, Master Clark, but I would have to agree that your current apparel is somewhat horrifying.”

Bruce watches as Clark jumps at the sudden appearance of Alfred at the doorway of the cabin. He’s tempted to shake his head because, really, with super senses, there’s no reason Clark shouldn’t hear Alfred coming. Then again, Alfred manages to sneak up on him when he’s in full Batman mode, so...

“Just the shirt, Clark, please.”

Clark huffs indignantly, but walks over to the small closet on the side of the cabin where he yanks off his shirt. Bruce has a moment to appreciate that broad expanse of back before Clark pulls on another shirt, this one of a darker blue than the board shorts he’s wearing. Bruce sighs gratefully.

“Thank you,” he tells his boyfriend. When Alfred snatches up the offending garment, he shares a look he knows the butler will correctly interpret as an instruction to burn the thing, lest it ever be worn again. Or worse, in case it somehow breeds and multiplies.

“Now that you’re done criticizing my fashion choices—”

“Am I really? You _still_ won’t switch to a suit that has the underwear on the _inside_.”

“Ha. Look who’s suddenly a comedian after a head injury. And in relation to that, I think Alfred was going to check you over.”

“Indeed, sir. And then I will bring breakfast down for the both of you.”

“Why don’t I just go and see to that, while—”

“No,” Bruce growls. “Stay.”

“I could use your assistance with determining the state of Master Bruce’s ribs. I would also appreciate a scan of his admittedly thick skull.” The butler’s face is placid, but his tone is pure snark at that last bit.

“And I want a report on your part in last night’s takedown.”

Clark sighs and does as he is told. In turn, Bruce decides to reward him by submitting to Alfred’s poking and prodding and answering questions to check his mental and physiological capacities honestly and without sarcasm.

As none of the human traffickers had been prepared for a metahuman, much less Superman, it seems that the takedowns in Myanmar and Laos had gone off without a hitch.

By the time Superman has wrapped up his report, Alfred has completed his examination and changed Bruce’s bandages with efficiency borne of years of experience. The butler declares his charge off-duty for two weeks, at which point the pair practice their time-honored tradition of haggling on Bruce’s health, with Clark firmly on Alfred’s side.

Bruce argues them down to one more day of bed rest and a week of light activity with no Batmanning, as Clark puts it, before Alfred goes to ready their breakfast.

“I’d have gotten him down to five days on light activity without you butting in,” Bruce grumbles.

“Then I’m glad I was here.”

Clark moves to sit on the chair beside the bed again, but Bruce pats the mattress beside him. He rolls his eyes at the care the other man takes in settling into bed. “So,” Bruce says, the hand on his uninjured side snaking down to rest on Clark’s thigh, “how much rest do you think needs to be involved in this ‘bed rest’ you’ve banished me to?”

“Bruce! Stop that! And _all_ of it is supposed to be bed rest. That’s why it’s _bed rest_ and not just, you know, _bed_.”

Despite Clark’s protests, Bruce manages to get his breath hitching when Alfred interrupts them with breakfast. As they decimate the full English, Bruce in bed and Clark using a small table beside him, the reporter suddenly remembers the travelogue he’s supposed to be working on and declares his intentions to explore Malacca and the surrounding areas.

They’d spent the previous few days in and around the cities they’d been planning raids in as well as putting in obligatory celebrity face time in various tourist traps for the local press, but Clark wanted to round out his story with more affordable locations than he’d managed to visit with the oh-so-recognizable Prince of Gotham in tow.

“Coward,” Bruce says as Clark changes into khakis and packs a small man-purse with his notebook, pens, and guide book.

Clark smirks and bends down to kiss him on the lips, pulling away when Bruce raises a hand to grab onto his shirt and deepen it. “Rest well, dear,” he says with a jaunty salute.

Bruce curses his back as he leaves.

* * *

It’s evening when Clark returns, and he’s brought dinner, having warned Alfred ahead of time not to cook. He unloads takeout boxes of nasi goreng, beef rendang, prawn sambal, and roti for Alfred to plate up (he may condescend to takeout, but they have to have _standards_ , Master Clark) while Clark goes to wake Bruce for the meal.

They enjoy their repast, then Clark and Alfred gang up on Bruce to get him to go back to bed after he’s had his fill. Clark flies back to Metropolis for a quick patrol, then does some basic emergency response work, killing time until he needs to turn in for the night.

“Coward” is about right, he thinks to himself as he flies back. He cravenly hopes Bruce has fallen asleep by the time he gets to the boat, and he breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees the other man buried under the blankets, heartbeat even and breathing steady, when he gets in. He showers and changes into pajamas, then carefully eases himself into bed.

Only to have Bruce immediately turn over and twine his limbs around his own like he’s some kind of human boa constrictor. A very _naked_ human boa constrictor, who latches his lips onto the pulse point at Clark’s neck while a hand trails downward and slips into Clark’s pajama pants.

“No, Bruce,” Clark gasps, even as his body hardens in a way that screams _yes, Bruce_.

“Why not?” Bruce murmurs against his skin, hands grasping.

All the blood from Clark’s brain must have shot southward, because the only thing he can say at first is, “Umm.”

“Hmm?” A warm, callused hand circles his cock then tightens, pumping once, twice. Thrice.

“S-s-stitches!” Clark gasps finally. “You’ll pull your stitches.”

“Or…” Bruce nips his earlobe as his thumb brushes the slit at the tip of Clark’s cock, swiping precum. He brings his thumb up so Clark can _smell_ it, then licks the moistness from the pad before letting his fingers trail down Clark’s chest, unbuttoning his pajama top as he goes.

“Or..?”

“Or you could do most of the work. I could just lie here and not tear my stitches.”

Clark stills, then shifts so he’s sitting on his heels on the bed. “You won’t be allowed to move,” he says.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Bruce. I’m serious. No moving, or I’ll stop. And if you do anything to tear your stitches, I’m banning sex until Alfred gives you the green light for full patrols again.”

“But—”

“No.”

He gets a pout in response.

“I mean it, Bruce.”

A huff. “Fine. Get naked already.”

The fact that Bruce does manage to stay more-or-less perfectly still as they make love absolutely does not mean they don’t spend the next few days rocking the boat.

* * *

# 2\. Hawaii

Batman isn’t normally on call for emergency response work; it’s more strategically sound to place heroes with superstrength, speed, telepathy, and similar search-and-rescue skills at the forefront of these efforts.

But after Mauna Loa on Hawaii’s Big Island blows its top, a new geothermal facility nearby shows dangerous readings and, thanks to shortcuts by the contractors who built it, becomes structurally compromised. Bruce and Ray Palmer are called in to try to stabilize it, or at least keep it from blowing until a full evacuation of the area can be mounted.

They succeed, barely, but afterward there’s cleanup and an investigation into the poor quality of construction for the power plant. Preliminary intel leads not just to criminal negligence, but under-the-table deals to bypass necessary inspections and other seedy moves on the parts of the owners and contractors. And while Palmer might be aces at the science stuff that kept the facility from total meltdown, it’s Bruce who’s experienced in tracing corruption to its source, especially when the trail leads to people in high places.

Since Superman was instrumental in the search and rescue efforts, Clark stays to act as liaison to the League and to help with the safe demolition of some of the destroyed structures. He also helps hasten up the cooling of the new lava fields with his ice breath (or cryokinetic breath, according to the files on the Batcomputer).

Of course, Batman’s investigation uncovers nothing so simple as a government conspiracy. Instead, it turns out an angry volcano goddess named Pele is behind not just the destruction of the geothermal facility, but also the eruption of Mauna Loa.

And because their luck is made for porta-potties, said volcano goddess is gearing up for another eruption of the nearby Kīlauea volcano the same day Bruce uncovers her plot to take control of the Big Island and restore the old worship, complete with human sacrifice.

They are almost too late to stop her, and it comes at a high price. Bruce suffers second, third, and fourth degree burns and is dying in Clark’s arms by the time four gods materialize before them in a shower of light to take Pele into custody.

One of the gods, a bronzed figure who stands at least ten feet tall and is stark naked, proudly displaying his sizeable, er, organ, stays to help Bruce. He and Clark take the injured man to Lake Waiau on Mauna Kea, where Clark reluctantly releases his lover into the arms of a beautiful goddess wearing a cloak made of clouds and snow who bathes Bruce in the lake’s waters.

Then the god, who tells Clark his name is Lono, plucks leaves from the wreath-crown at his brow, and makes a poultice for Bruce’s wounds. And despite the direness of the situation, Clark finds himself a little jealous when the god leans close and kisses Bruce _with tongue_.

“Is that really necessary?” Clark asks, snatching Bruce back out of the arms of the god. He raises a brow and tries to sound skeptical, but knows his voice is more peevish than questioning.

“Yes,” the god intones, but the grandiloquence is diminished somewhat by the man’s smirk. “The magic in my spit must be transferred into this man for the healing to take place.”

“Magic spit,” Clark repeats dubiously, in a tone that does justice to Batman.

Lono grins. “Yes, and I will need to reapply this as well as change his poultices at sunup and sundown for four days to fully heal the damage.”

“You’ll need to _kiss_ him twice a day.”

“Yes. Your friend’s wounds are grievous. He may yet perish.”

As if on cue, Bruce makes a sound that’s halfway between moaning and keening, something pained and jagged out of a ruined throat. Immediately, Clark forgets everything but the man in his arms. “Shh,” he croons, trying to find a way to hold Bruce so his injuries don’t pain him further. “Shh, my love.”

“So he is your husband,” the god observes. “I understand your reluctance now.”

“We’re not married,” Clark says absently, gaze still on Bruce, who despite being unconscious is nearly contorted and grimacing in pain. “But—”

“You love him.”

“I do.”

“I believe I may find less… intimate… ways to deliver my spit into his system,” the god says musingly. “But the ritual must be followed. And it would ease his pain if Poli´ahu may bathe him daily in the waters of Waiau as she has done now. She is happy to do so, as she has ever been opposed to Pele’s, ah—”

“Histrionics,” the goddess, Poli´ahu, says sardonically. “And yes, for the man who vanquished Pele, I would gladly assist in providing healing magic.”

Clark shifts to look at her, but before he can speak, Bruce comes awake again, and though he doesn’t make a sound, Clark can hear the way he struggles to temper his breathing against the urge to gasp in pain, the moans that barely start in Bruce’s throat only to be viciously swallowed down.

“Is there anything you can do?” he begs the gods before him.

“Here,” the goddess says, and tips a cup of water into Bruce’s mouth. The man swallows reflexively, and in mere moments, some of the rigid tension in his body eases. “This will not take all of his pain, but will ease much of it.”

“I—” Clark sighs. “I’m grateful.” He looks at Lono. “Four days? Would we have to, uh, stay here?”

Lono shakes his head and gestures to the dry area around them. “It would be convenient, but there is no shelter for him here. Nor would the cabins at the base of the mountain offer much comfort.”

“K’muel,” Bruce groans. “Ahhh…”

Clark frowns down at him. “Shh, Bruce, save your strength.”

“C’mpany… r’treat… house… K’m’la…” Bruce manages, then passes out from the effort.

Clark turns on his communicator and gets it to connect with the Batcave systems. “Agent A,” he says, not willing to offer up details about Bruce’s identity, even to a deity.

“Superman,” Alfred says. “I gathered from the cowl cam feed before it was taken out by the, er, volcano goddess that Batman has been injured. What do you need, sir?”

“Br-Batman has some pretty bad burns, but the other Hawaiian gods have decided to help,” Clark says, hastily but carefully; Bruce wouldn’t thank him for anything less. “But it means we need to stay for a few days, and he mentioned we might be able to use—do you know a… Camilla?”

“It will take four sunrises and four sunsets before your master Bruce Wayne will be fully healed, Alfred Pennyworth,” Lono says, and Clark makes a mental note to tell Batman that Hawaiian gods apparently have a way of discerning secret identities. Telepathy or some kind of truth magic. At Lono’s amused look, Clark decides he’ll place bets on telepathy. Lono only grins. “I believe he mentioned a company retreat house in Kamuela.”

“Ah, one moment, Mister…?”

“Lono, god of fertility, agriculture, rainfall, music and peace.”

Alfred gives them an address and tells them he will mark the house as being occupied, and Lono guides Clark to the location. The volcano god raises his eyes at the size of the house, but Clark has become, if not immune, then at least somewhat used to the excessiveness of the Wayne family holdings. And his priority is getting Bruce into a bed and finding a way to get the melted remnants of the Batsuit off him without taking a chunk of the other man’s skin with it.

The idea nauseates Clark, but he knows he will stomach worse to take care of the man who has become his world.

Lono helps. Clark appreciates it a lot.

He would appreciate it _more_ if Lono didn’t appreciate Bruce’s body quite so much—with the burns concentrated on Bruce’s extremities and respiratory system, his torso is virtually untouched and chiseled as always. Clark doesn’t quite like the gleam in the fertility god’s eyes.

He also wishes said fertility god would put on some clothes.

Lono doesn’t.

He does, however, condescend to spit in a cup and make Bruce drink the magic-infused saliva instead of kissing the man, for which Clark is grateful, if slightly grossed out. He also helps Clark dose Bruce liberally with water from Lake Waiau that the goddess has infused with cooling magic to ease the pain. It seems to have a sedative effect as Bruce spends most of the time unconscious, waking only when forced to eat or drink.

Lono turns out to be a fairly interesting person. He spends his days walking the land or, as apparently is a hobby for many local deities, hanging ten with his fellow gods and bedding surfer boys and girls on sandy beaches. Well, Clark concedes, he _is_ a fertility god, after all.

They talk about the future, and the League, and Clark thinks Diana would be pretty proud of how he negotiated with Lono for the gods to be more proactive in cases of natural disasters in their areas of responsibility. Lono says his brothers might be persuaded but some of the more temperamental gods are certainly a lost cause.

This turns the conversation to more personal matters, as it turns out Lono enjoys the novelty of having someone to complain about his brothers to. Clark, in turn, complains about Bruce’s stubbornness when it comes to taking a rest, to taking the time to let himself heal from the wounds he earns throwing himself headlong against the spiked wall that is Gotham’s criminal underbelly, not to mention world invasions and the occasional god-induced catastrophe.

“Well, perhaps I can help with that,” Lono says, a smirk on his lips. “After all, he is too pretty a specimen to waste his life on only work, and you yourself are too pretty to languish in neglect.”

Clark huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, tell _him_ that.”

“I’ve something more effective in mind.”

For four days, they tend to the Dark Knight. Each day, it seems the burns heal a little more, until after the fourth sunset, and Clark feels like sobbing in relief when the poultices come off and the skin on Bruce’s arms and legs is shiny and pink and completely unmarred by scars—it seems Lono’s healing has even eliminated the scars the Gothamite had had before, at least in the areas that had been treated.

In the fading light of dusk, they bring Bruce to Lake Waiau for a final bathing, after which the goddess Poli´ahu wraps him in what looks like a storm cloud and places a cold-misted kiss on his forehead, waking him.

“What—?”

“You’re okay, Bruce,” Clark says hastily, taking him in his arms.

“We have repaid your service with healing, Bruce Wayne, Batman of Gotham,” Lono intones.

“I thank you,” Bruce says, stepping out of Clark’s grasp so he can bow, first to Lono and then to Poli´ahu.

“We ask now that you honor our gift and pay tithe to the bounty the land has offered you by making a small sacrifice.”

Bruce scowls. “Sacrifice?”

Lono holds up a hand imperiously. “I am a god of this island. My blessing brings bounty to wombs and the land itself, my voice is the rainfall that renews, and my footsteps mark the music to which my people dance. My dominion is peace. Thus, for four days, you must remain on the island and express joy at its beauty. As during my festival time, war and unnecessary work shall be _kapu_ —forbidden—for you and your companion.”

“Four days? But—”

“Alfred Pennyworth has assured that your children will guard your city in your stead for the duration. And if Superman is needed, well, this is why I have banned _unnecessary_ work. However, you, Dark Knight, must remain in Hawai`i.”

Clark can see Bruce’s jaw clenching at the idea of enforced rest, but the other man is glaring at Lono, so Clark shoots the god a grateful look. Lono tilts his head just the tiniest bit, and Clark would swear he sees amusement in the god’s eyes.

“Four days, Bruce Wayne,” Lono intones. “You may depart after four sunsets.” A pause. “Were it not for our healing, you would spend many months in a hospital burn unit, and possibly would have lost at least one limb to amputation.”

Teeth grinding, Bruce nods and bows. Lono takes the opportunity to wink cheekily at Clark.

Poli´ahu laughs. “Come visit me in the daytime, Dark Knight. I would like to know what you are like when you are not sleeping.”

Lono smiles. “I too would be pleased to show you the island’s prettiest gardens and surf spots.”

Their eyes rove over Bruce’s cloud-wrapped form, and Clark resolves not to let his boyfriend go on _any_ excursions without him.

The two heroes thank the gods once more before taking their leave, and Clark flies them to the house in Kamuela. There, in the large bed of the master suite, he holds Bruce close, just breathing in the smell of rain and mountain dew drops in his lover’s hair, looking into those night-blue eyes.

“I thought I would lose you this time,” he whispers against Bruce’s lips, keeping his eyes open on Bruce’s face to keep at bay the image of Bruce’s blackened hands, the weeping burns on his arms and legs, all the injuries Pele had dealt before Lono and his brothers had arrived.

“You didn’t,” Bruce says, and his hands, now pale in the moonlight, having been cooled in Poli´ahu’s lake, are infinitely gentle as he strokes Clark’s cheek, brushes away tears Clark hasn’t realized he’s spilled.

“I can’t lose you,” Clark says, pleads. “I love you so much, B.” He’s sobbing now, the stress and worry of the past few days catching up to him.

“Shh,” Bruce whispers. “Shh. I love you too, Clark.” He presses feather-light kisses to Clark’s forehead, to his eyelids and cheeks, to his lips. Uses his arms to stroke comfort anywhere he can reach.

Clark doesn’t realize the storm-cloak has dissipated until he grabs onto Bruce’s hips, suddenly filled with the need to prove to himself that Bruce is healed, and whole, and alive. He presses fevered lips to Bruce’s cloud-cooled skin, is gratified when that skin warms under his touch, his caresses.

Soon they are moaning into each other’s mouths, hands grasping, greedy.

If they spend more time appreciating the beauty of each other than that of the Big Island over the next few days, well, Clark figures Lono won’t argue the point.

Plus, hey, they do manage to get out of bed and do some exploring _sometimes_. They go to the Kona Coffee Living History Farm and grab a load of the signature Hawaiian beans to fuel Tim’s caffeine addiction. They hike up to the Akaka and Kahuna Falls and take several selfies, as per Dick’s request. Right before leaving, they make a stop at the Hilo Farmers Market and pick out an assortment of colorful fruits, filling two huge baskets—one for Alfred, and one for Martha Kent. Clark can’t wait for the resulting pies and pastries.

Both the indoor and outdoor activities leave them both pleasantly exhausted at the end of each day, especially with Clark randomly flying off to do some rescue or other. But Clark doesn’t mind.

And keeping Bruce otherwise occupied at least keeps him from doing any “unnecessary” work. It is, after all, _kapu_.

Although Clark never manages to hear that term again without calling up memories of steamy afternoons in bed, or mornings by the poolside, or that one time in a freaking _hammock_...

* * *

# 3\. The Philippines

The enforced “do no unnecessary work” week has Batman hitting the streets of Gotham harder the moment he gets home. Clark would be worried, except that Bruce somehow looks like he’s years younger, fucks like he’s spent a little less time throwing his body at the Sisyphean task of dragging down Gotham’s crime rates, and—well, okay, that explains why Lono winked at him as they zeta beamed away on that last day.

Things are going swimmingly, and Bruce and Clark even manage to take some time off to stay with Martha Kent one weekend, where the woman fusses after the billionaire, feeding him seconds of everything and scolding Clark for keeping Bruce in the cold when they end up talking through the night on the roof of the barn. Bruce laps up the maternal affection.

So when the omega level crisis alert goes through his comms one Tuesday three months after their return from Hawaii, Clark doesn’t even know why he’s surprised. It _is_ Tuesday, after all.

Well, okay, he’s surprised when he gets to the Watchtower and finds out that their opponents are freaking _kaiju_ —well, probably not literally kaiju, but close enough to the Japanese monsters of urban legend, ala Godzilla, that most of the League had decided to use the term for this classification of baddie as well. Evidently, there’s some sort of dimensional rift that’s been opened in the Mariana Trench, and the creatures that have emerged are going for the nearest populated areas along the Pacific rim, specifically Guam, Japan, Taiwan, and the Philippines.

Heavy-hitters are assigned to head off the four kaiju sent to the at-risk areas, but Batman, some of the League’s top physicists, and a few of the magicians on the JL Dark team zeta down to Atlantis. Aquaman has gathered an army to hold off the last and largest of the kaiju, but he needs their assistance to close the rift and make sure no other monsters come through.

There’s immense satisfaction about punching something that looks like the bastard child of a T-Rex and a stegosaurus in the face. In letting loose and using all his powers on the gigantic armor-plated death-ray-breathing monster. It’s a tough battle, but the thing’s powers weaken the very moment it’s announced over comms that the rift has been closed, and Superman’s final uppercut-and-heat-vision combo takes the kaiju down within spitting distance of the beach General MacArthur famously landed at back in World War II.

Superman and his squad let out a cheer as they assemble about half a klik from the Leyte Landing memorial, and the gaping spectators take it as a sign it’s safe to gather close, mobile phones out, to ask for selfies and autographs.

After taking his leave of the well-wishers, Clark shoots up into the atmosphere and switches his comms to the private frequency he and Bruce use. “Good job on that rift closure, Batman,” he says, knowing his boyfriend would not approve of using civilian names on comms. “Guess that deep-sea Batsub you were tinkering with got put to good use.”

There’s nothing but the faintest hum of static in his ear.

“Batman?”

Clark frowns. Bruce always, _always_ answers him, even if it’s to tell him to go away because he’s busy.

“Batman?! Come in, Batman!” _Please_. He opens up his hearing, searches the world for that reassuringly steady heartbeat he’s all too often fallen asleep to.

Just then his comm beeps, indicating an incoming call on the JL frequency. He switches to it right away. “Where’s Batman?”

“Superman—”

“Where’s Batman?” He doesn’t even attempt to hide the desperation in his voice when J’onn responds.

“He’s been injured. We are en route to a hospital in the Philippines that’s the closest with a trauma center equipped to handle his injuries. He was able to communicate that he should be brought in with his civilian identity. He said Agent A has the cover story; do you know what this means?”

This is bad. _Really_ bad. “Yes,” Clark says numbly. “I’ll—I’ll call and meet you guys there. Superman out.”

He gets on the BatFamily frequency. Clears his voice before having it call the Cave. “Agent A,” he croaks.

“Master—Superman, is everything all right? I’ve been following the mission on the cowl cameras, but the signal was spotty so deep underwater.”

“N-no, B’s been injured. He said you’d know his cover story.”

“Yes, I believe it was scuba diving at several well-reviewed sites later this week. He’d had me file a flight plan and book hotel rooms. He’d intended to make a stop in the Republic of Palau before heading to the Philippines. I will have Nightwing take a zeta tube to the Watchtower, to be sent to your location as he has medical power of attorney for Batman’s civilian persona, much as you have for the Justice League.”

“Th-thanks, Alf—Agent A.”

“Please, keep us updated.”

“You know I will.”

Clark hovers in the stratosphere over the archipelago, using his telescopic vision to spy on the progress of his teammates. Aquaman and Green Lantern emerge from the port in the city of Cebu, a limp Bruce Wayne laid out on a construct that looks vaguely like a gurney. He’s bleeding heavily from a large wound in his side, which Arthur is pressing down on, he’s frighteningly pale, and he’s _not breathing_.

Someone from the Justice League must have called ahead because a team of doctors is waiting at the doors of the emergency room of the hospital they land in front of. Someone immediately calls for intubation and to ready the bypass machine One of the doctors calls for an OR, stat, while another orders one of the nurses to get details on the patient.

“Dude must’ve been scuba diving, and crossed paths with a frickin’ kaiju,” Arthur tells a nurse who asks him what he knows about the trauma, telling the story that had been narrated over JL comms just a few moments before. At her blank stare, he holds his arms wide, then high. “Big-ass dinosaur monster thing. I think it chomped down on him or something. I tried to slow down as we came up so he wouldn’t get the bends, but I was worried about drowning him and also trying to get him away from the giant thing trying to eat him, so I don’t know.”

Everyone not involved in life-saving measures is gaping at him—at his story or maybe just the fact that Aquaman is standing in the middle of the hospital in full regalia, shiny orange shirt and green pants and trident and all.

“Uh, everybody’s safe, no need to worry. Kaijus are dead, keep calm and carry on, folks,” Hal says awkwardly, waving his hands uselessly but dramatically.

The nurse asks if he knows anything about the patient—name, medical history.

“No,” Hal says. “We were fighting in the ocean. There was a _kaiju_ , you know like in that movie _Pacific Rim_? Didn’t expect to have to rescue civilians.”

Then one of the younger nurses manning the intake station gasps. “I think it’s Bruce Wayne!”

Hal puts on a show of doing a double-take. “For real? Like, the billionaire?”

“Yes, I thought it might be him, so I checked and his Instagram shows him reef diving in Palau yesterday.” She shows an image on her phone to the Green Lantern.

“Huh.”

Were Clark anything but scared out of his mind for Bruce, he would be marveling at the BatFamily’s contingency plans even in the midst of a crisis. As it is, he can only clutch the edges of his cape as he listens, both to the conversation in the ER and the frantic callouts from the surgeon in the operating room.

“We can have our people get in touch with his people,” Aquaman says. “Dude’s out of Gotham, right? That’s where the Bat’s from.” He turns away and makes a show of getting on his comms to have a conversation with J’onn. After a few minutes, in which Hal manages to flirt with half the nurses—male and female—on shift, he comes back. “We’re getting his eldest son out here. He’s his medical proxy, or whatever you call it. He says to tell you Bruce Wayne is AB+, and that he’ll approve any life-saving measures you need to take.”

“Thank you,” one of the nurses says. “We’ll inform the doctors right away.”

It’s not a moment too soon because the doctor calls out for yet another bag of O- blood and is informed the hospital is running low. Clark knows from other medical emergencies he’s assisted with that O- is considered the universal donor, while Bruce’s blood, AB+, is the universal receiver.

A few more moments, and Dick Grayson appears in front of the hospital in a flash of light typical of zeta transports. He makes a show of stumbling a little, and Hal steadies him. Clark’s known Dick since he was a boy, but none of the young man’s signature cheery attitude is in evidence today. Instead he strides into the hospital and immediately asks for an update, pulling out a sheaf of documents that show he has medical power of attorney for the man who was his guardian before becoming his adoptive father.

He signs documents Clark doesn’t bother reading while Clark trains his ears on the strange, regulated breathing and heartbeat of the man he loves as machines keep him alive through the doctors’ lifesaving measures. He could use his x-ray vision to see through walls and watch what the doctors are doing to Bruce, but the first glimpse makes him sick, and he’s forced to close his eyes against the heat and tears that threaten. He’s so focused on listening to what’s happening in the OR that he startles in mid-air when his communicator chirps.

The tone tells him it’s the frequency that’s been connected with Clark Kent’s official phone number, thanks to one of Bruce’s many little hacks. “C-Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” he says shakily.

“Kent!” Perry barks out. “Bruce Wayne is in critical condition in the Philippines! Seems he got caught in the crossfire while the Justice League was fighting some kind of Godzilla.”

“Uhh—”

“Lois got the scoop from Superman—” Actually, she probably got it from Wonder Woman, with whom she’s been in a relationship for the past two years “—but when she called Wayne Manor the family said they’d only talk to you.”

“Pull yourself together, man,” Perry says, and is that _sympathy_ he hears in his editor’s voice. “Get yourself onto that plane. Grayson was whisked over by the Justice League, but the other kids and their butler are leaving in one hour on the Wayne jet. They’ve offered you a ride, and the exclusive.”

“Chief, I don’t know if I—”

“Kent,” his editor says, and if it were anyone else, that tone would be absolutely _gentle_. “Standard operating procedure. Get the quotes, photos if he recovers and you can manage it. I’ll get Lane and Grant on the stories.”

“Thanks, Chief. I’m on it.”

After he hangs up, he calls Alfred and is informed that it isn’t actually necessary to meet them in Gotham, but he _will_ have to superspeed on board to change into the civilian clothes that will be waiting for him, so he can emerge from the Wayne jet as Clark Kent instead of Superman.

It’ll take some stealthy speeding, but Clark is grateful. Even with the state-of-the-art jet, the flight from Gotham to Cebu takes over twelve hours—much faster than the minimum of seventeen hours on commercial flights, but still longer than Clark could imagine sitting in a metal can for while the man he loves fights for his life.

As it is, Bruce is still in surgery by the time the Wayne private jet touches down on Mactan Cebu International Airport. It’s been an absolutely terrifying fourteen hours since he first went under the knife, but his blood pressure had started to drop while in recovery from that first surgery, so they had had to go in and stop another internal bleed after stabilizing him.

At this point, he’s flatlined and been brought back twice, had his entire blood volume replaced, and spent almost half a day on the operating table.

The kids, and Alfred, read the situation on Clark’s face, and Tim, Cass, and even Damian come in for a hug. Alfred murmurs something about Master Jason not being willing to fly with the family or leave Gotham unguarded. It makes Clark’s heart, already overtaxed by this entire situation, clench painfully for the boy, and also for Bruce.

They take a chopper from the airfield to the hospital, where they are met on the roof by Dick, who hugs everyone with tears in his eyes and the news that Bruce is still hanging on, but he’s not out of surgery yet.

Clark knows this, has never once failed to count each precious heartbeat, but he breathes a sigh of relief nevertheless.

They’re given a private waiting room, as press and other gawkers have gathered outside the hospital in the hopes of spotting one of the family or perhaps sneaking in to catch a glimpse of Bruce. It’s over an hour later, _sixteen_ hours since Bruce was first rushed into the emergency room, that an exhausted-looking doctor comes out to speak with them.

But everyone in this family has been trained to read body language, and the moment she walks in the room, some of the tension leaves it. When she speaks, it’s to tell them what they already know: “He’s made it,” she says. “We had some bad moments, but he pulled through.”

The kids hug each other, and Alfred, and Dick is crying unashamedly when he moves over to embrace the doctor as well. Seeing as she’s five foot three at most, she looks a little surprised at the tall man hugging her, but then pats him on the back comfortingly.

Still, she tells them Bruce remains in critical condition and will be moved to the ICU when he is out of recovery. As a precautionary measure, he’s being kept on a ventilator, to relieve his body of the “stress of breathing”—and how bad is it that just having to breathe on his own could tax his body beyond its capabilities right now?

There’s a fairly terrifying rundown of injuries, and the fact that they won’t know if his time underwater has resulted in brain damage until he wakes up is only one of the top five concerns that are clawing at Clark’s insides.

They’ll be allowed to see Bruce once he’s in the ICU, but for a few minutes only, and just two at a time. Family only.

At this point, Alfred pulls out a non-disclosure agreement form and has the bemused doctor sign it, then explains that Mr. Kent is Bruce’s long-time partner, and Clark is tempted to kiss the older man if it wouldn’t shock the butler out of all reason.

“And Alfred’s his dad,” Dick pipes in, making Clark’s heart melt even more, and oh, he’ll have to tell Bruce when he wakes up about how amazing his family has been throughout this all.

Over the next few days, the family sets up a shifting schedule, so that at any given point there’s at least two of them at the hospital. They’re also booked into luxury suites at a nearby hotel, have arranged multiple cars for their use and a discreet entrance via the hospital’s staff parking in order to avoid the paparazzi. The boys zeta to and from Gotham to run patrols, and they push Clark to run a few patrols of Metropolis as well.

Superman continues to put out fires, save people from earthquakes and landslides, and even rescue kittens from trees. But he keeps one ear on that heartbeat half a world away.

It’s Tim who sends Clark a transcript of a completely made up, but believable, interview with the Waynes following the crisis, along with some quotes from Aquaman and Green Lantern, who’ve expressed hopes for Mr. Wayne’s speedy recovery. A completely fictional diving companion of Mr. Wayne’s is declared missing after the incident, and the family hopes he or his remains will be found soon.

And then Bruce wakes up.

It’s five days after the kaiju attack, and Clark barely registered the slightly elevated heart rate before he’s in Bruce’s room.

Bruce is still on the vent, but he’s been intubated before, and he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he just half-opens an eye, gaze moving unerringly to his and then to the hand clasped in both of Clark’s, squeezes back just the faintest bit, and then drifts out of consciousness again, but this time with his heart in a more familiar pattern of sleep.

Clark keeps that hand in one of his own, then uses his communicator to call the family and the League, to tell them Bruce is awake.

Of course it doesn’t take long for Bruce to be downgraded from the ICU to a private room; and once that happens, neither does it take long for Bruce to start grumbling about going home.

The doctors and nurses are unfailingly cheerful, no matter how grumpy Bruce gets. Eventually he’s charmed despite himself and consents to a round of selfies with his nurses.

Now that Bruce is out of danger, the boys have a little fun too—and they even convince Jason to fly over for a bit. They spend the days on the island’s white-sand beaches, dining out on fresh seafood, sticky rice treats, and the city’s world-renowned whole roasted pig, in such a way that has the country’s netizens whooping and cheering and the rest of the world Googling “Filipino cuisine.” Clark supplies Cat Grant with several exclusive photos taken by Tim, and she’s so ecstatic over them she promises him a week of gourmet coffee when he comes back.

By night, those who aren’t back in Gotham patrolling have taken an interest in eradicating some of the injustice that plagues the country hosting them. There’s a suspicious roundup of killer vigilantes and corrupt officials as well as a flood of information sent to local and international authorities and press detailing their crimes.

Bruce Wayne and his boys give all appearances of being oblivious to the political upheaval. They post cheerful #RoadtoRecovery pics for Bruce and #PHWaynes for the boys’ random travel and food pics.

Not that the photos of coral reefs, sandy beaches, and so many waterfalls they lose count of them are all the boys get up to while ostensibly visiting their dad. The Wayne Foundation ends up partnering with several orphanages as well as educational foundations and poverty-alleviation organizations.

By the time Bruce Wayne boards his flight back to the US, it seems the whole country is sad to see him and his kids go.

He has to promise his doctors and nurses he’ll drop by when next he’s in the area, and some of the country’s netizens have started an online campaign to get the Waynes to move there from Gotham.

Lois ends up snickering with Clark about it over the phone—photos comparing Gotham scenes to Philippine ones have gone viral. One pair of photos juxtaposes sludge coming out of Gotham’s large sewer pipes with a stunning waterfall over a thousand feet tall. Another shows a photo of the Joker and his gang side by side with a photo of one of the colorful masked festivals. A third—and this is Clark’s favorite—depicts Professor Pyg’s mug shot alongside a photo of Cebu’s famous _lechon_.

So, much like MacArthur, Bruce ends up having to promise to return with his army (of children).

He does, three months later, after getting heavy pressure from Clark, the boys, and the whole effing internet. They make a family vacation of it, plus Clark (although his participation is kept out of most of the shots).

Bruce rents out all the rooms on a private island resort, and the whole family spends several days frolicking in turquoise waters and gorging themselves on food (apparently the Filipino way of saying hello is asking if someone has eaten yet).

By night, well. Clark can attest that things get pretty steamy even disregarding the tropical climate that means the temp never dips below a balmy 72 degrees and can soar to the 90s any given noontime.

Although there are _way_ too many mischievous sea creatures where they’re staying.

After their fourth attempt at an ocean tryst—and how is it that Batman keeps saying he doesn’t have time to go on vacation, but manages to make time to create seawater-resistant lube?—is interrupted by random whales or dolphins blowing bubbles at their bums (and in one memorable encounter, a huge-ass whale shark), Bruce cottons on and sends Aquaman a scathing text, but sticks to seduction on land for the duration of their stay.

“How was your vacation, Bats?” Arthur asks at the next Justice League meeting.

He almost doesn’t dodge the batarang Bruce throws at him, he’s laughing so hard.

* * *

# +1: The Bahamas

“Pack a bag,” Bruce says when Clark arrives at Wayne Manor after work one Friday night.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Think tropical vacation.” They’re in their bedroom, or rather the large walk-in closet adjacent to their room, which is larger than Clark’s room in Smallville, not to mention twice the size of the one in his Metropolis apartment. Clark is on the chaise lounge—and whose kind of outrageous extravagance has a chaise lounge in someone’s freaking closet, anyway? Bruce Wayne’s, that’s who—watching Bruce stuff garments into a bag in a way that would have Alfred wincing, were the butler there.

“Uh. Why?”

“Something’s up with Bane. Recon mission in Santa Prisca. I’ve arranged for Brucie’s boat to head down to the Caribbean.”

“Santa Prisca? As in, the one in the Bahamas?” Clark’s interest spikes. They’re coming on their couple’s anniversary—it’s in two days, actually—and he wonders if he can persuade Bruce to turn this mission into a working vacation. He’s pretty sure he can get the boys on his side; they’ve been really protective after the whole injury-by- _kaiju_ thing a few months back. Bruce has grumbled on several occasions about their mother henning.

That they’re going with Bruce’s public persona is perfect; he’s been subtly nudging Bruce to take their relationship (Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne’s relationship, that is, not Superman and Batman’s; he’s optimistic, not unhinged) public so they can quit sneaking around or overusing the whole “favorite reporter” schtick. Maybe they can finally have a _real_ conversation about it.

He’s even prepared an itemized list with no fewer than thirty-three points to explain how this would work without compromising their secret identities. He decides he’ll pack the thumb drive where he’s saved his Blark-Goes-Public PowerPoint file, even though he’s still working on their couple name. Cluce? Wakent or Went? Keyne? Clark is close to giving up on the whole portmanteau thing, but Bruce and Selina had had Sebruce, and he is admittedly a tad competitive (Clark doesn’t like the word “jealous”).

“Did I not just say that? Plus, how many places near Santa Prisca do you know that are associated with Bane?” Bruce retorts, irritation rumbling in his voice.

Clark grins. “Just the one.”

“Hmph. Alfred’s headed down with the boat and the Batgear. I forgot to ask him to pack our bags for us, so go ahead and get your stuff in order.”

“Why the rush?” Clark gets up to head over to his section of the closet, a much smaller section than Bruce’s and with none of the fancy automated revolving racks or the digitally categorized clothes picker. Because _of course_ Batman would have photos and descriptions of every item of clothing he owned, with a special tablet in his freaking closet so he can mix and match outfits without actually taking them out and trying them on like a normal person. Sometimes Clark is convinced _Bruce_ is the alien in this relationship.

“I’ve booked Brucie into the Ocean Club—you know, that Four Seasons Resort down in the Bahamas—and we’re set to rendezvous with the boat there tomorrow morning after breakfast. We’re set to arrive tonight, where we’ll be too tired to go out on the town, but enough for the paps to get shots of us exiting the jet at the airport in Nassau.”

Clark stills in the act of folding a blue Hawaiian shirt with a hot pink hibiscus pattern. Shocked, he stares at his boyfriend. “What?”

Bruce’s eyes are on the shirt in Clark’s hands, an expression that might be called revulsion on his face. “Clark, if you do anything but burn that vile thing, please recall that I have the largest stash of Kryptonite on the planet.”

Clark is confused. “What?”

Bruce walks over, plucks the garment out of Clark’s hands, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if the fabric is rank instead of practically brand new, thank you very much. Then he walks over to the garbage bin and drops it in.

“Hey!”

“I’m doing you a favor, Kent.”

“Bruce—”

“I had my assistant leak to the paps that we’d be landing around ten, and the flight takes two and a half hours, so thanks to your late arrival, we’re running behind schedule.”

“I wouldn’t have been late if I’d known there was something on the schedule,” Clark grumbles. “Wait, Bruce. Did you say paps?”

A perfectly patrician brow arches skyward. “Did I stutter? Yes, paps. I think after all the less-than-subtle hints you’ve been dropping about us going public, you’d prefer it if we had a plausible reason to be unreachable once the pics hit the tabloids. If only because Perry would kill you for not giving the Planet the exclusive.”

“What? No, you’re… I mean, what?”

Bruce sighs. “We’re going public. We’ll emerge from the plane and I’ll pull you into a liplock that’ll leave the press with no doubts as to my intentions toward your person. It’ll be fine. Your mom knows about us. The kids know about us. The League, if they aren’t idiots, know about us. I have several contingencies in place to protect our secret identities even with our outing as Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne. Are you with me so far?”

“Um. Yes.” Clark thinks about that thirty-three-point list he spent days, even weeks, drawing up. He thinks about all that time wasted since he won’t need to open the PowerPoint to show Bruce after all. He bites down on the grin that threatens when he realizes he doesn’t regret a minute of it. And he’s absurdly happy not to have to ask Bruce what portmanteau they should use for their relationship.

“We’ll let the paps stalk us tonight and tomorrow morning, then get on the boat and sail off to a private island halfway between Bahamas and Bimini that Bruce Wayne is thinking about buying.”

“You don’t think the press will find _some_ way to hound us?”

“Sadly, phone signals are erratic in the area, so neither you nor I will be available for comment for the next two or three days. Then we’ll come back, and we’ll give the exclusive to Lois or Cat Grant or whoever you want, although we’ll have to give a second interview to a Gotham rag lest the old town be up in arms.”

Bruce wears an expression that’s half expectant and half annoyed, but Clark can see a hint of doubt and a lot of vulnerability in the other man’s eyes, and he’ll have none of that. So he takes Bruce in his arms and seizes his lips with his own, pouring every bit of love and gratitude he’s feeling into the kiss.

By the time they draw apart, both men are gasping for breath—and Clark doesn’t even _need_ to breathe.

Clark goes in for another kiss, but Bruce pulls back, smirks, and does some ninja thing that has him out of Clark’s arms. “Pack it up, Kansas,” the billionaire says with a cheerful slap to Clark’s butt. “And none of those God awful shirts, please. They dampen my libido.”

Then he hoists his duffel bag over his shoulder and strolls out into their bedroom.

Well.

Clark stares at the five remaining sets of Hawaiian shirts he’d packed into a small bag and hidden away in the back of his closet, away from Bruce’s and Alfred’s prying eyes. Dampen his libido? Can’t have that.

He takes a moment to contemplate his plaids, but then he remembers they’re going to the Bahamas. So he shrugs, grabs a couple of white button-downs, a few tees, board shorts, khakis, and, after some hesitation, a tiny pair of royal blue swim trunks Bruce had gifted him with a while back. It _is_ their anniversary, after all.

Clark emerges from the walk-in closet fifteen minutes after Bruce, having changed into dark jeans and a gray henley. He’s got a duffel bag in one hand and a bomber jacket over one shoulder. Bruce’s eyes rake over his form appreciatively, and Clark’s glad he took the extra few minutes to figure out what to wear for their big come-out moment.

Bruce himself is in a blue linen suit that makes his eyes look especially bright, a skinny navy tie and a crisp white shirt completing the look.

“Am I underdressed?”

Bruce shakes his head. “You’re perfect.”

Clark blushes, but inclines his head to indicate Bruce’s own outfit. The billionaire shrugs. “It’s expected. But we’ve also got two and a half hours on the Wayne private jet, and while it won’t be the first time we’ve joined the mile-high club, I expect to be fully debauched before the wheels touch the tarmac in Nassau.”

This has the reporter grinning wickedly. “I can do that,” he promises. “Alfred won’t recognize this suit by the time we deplane.”

Bruce grimaces. “Please don’t bring up Alfred when you’re propositioning me.”

Clark snickers. “No promises. Anyway, I thought we were running late?”

They are certainly late, but then again the advantage of flying by private jet means the pilot waits for you. They are greeted by a small mob of paparazzi when they land, and a thoroughly rumpled Bruce does as promised and pulls Clark into a kiss that leaves him gasping and the members of the press with no doubt Brucie’s relationship with his “favorite reporter” is far from platonic.

They mess up the hotel room too, in the name of “Brucie Wayne wouldn’t leave a suite looking like anything less than a den of iniquity.” Clark at one point manages to come all over the ceiling of their bedroom, so hard he takes out one of the light fixtures, and he’s still blushing about it over breakfast the next morning.

Bruce reassures him he’s already allotted a hefty tip and that housekeeping will likely chalk it up to billionaire shenanigans and the likelihood of them thinking it’s the result of Superman taking it up the ass for Bruce Wayne is absolutely nil.

Clark pretends he doesn’t know that the odds on some enterprising paparazzi getting ahold of the story (and maybe even taking photos of their sex-wrecked room) are significantly more than nil.

He’s just grateful Bruce had encouraged him to call his mom from the plane to warn her about the storm that was coming. It had been a thoroughly awkward conversation, especially with Bruce watching him like he was a tall glass of lemonade after a day working the fields. Still, Ma had assured him everything would be fine; she loved Bruce like a son already, and she was happy they were finally taking their relationship out in the open.

They run through another gauntlet of paps at the pier. Clark would like nothing more than to duck his head and hurry to the boat where Alfred is waiting for them, but Bruce grabs his hand and keeps their pace at a languid stroll.

“Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne! Will you answer some questions?”

“Sure! Just a few, though. My butler has me on a schedule.”

“Who is your companion?”

“This is Clark. Say hi, Clark.”

Clark smiles awkwardly, and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Uh, hi.”

“Are you Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet in Metropolis?”

“Um, yes, I am.”

“And you’re here as Mr. Wayne’s... companion?”

Clark shoots a panicked look at Bruce and is gratified when the billionaire pulls him closer, putting an arm around his shoulders. “As they say where Clark is from, we’re going steady.”

“What brings you both to the Bahamas?”

“A little business, a lot of pleasure. Checking out a possible investment property, and thought it’d be a nice excuse to get away.” Bruce leans over and kisses Clark on the cheek. “It’s our anniversary tomorrow, and we’ve both got busy schedules, so I thought a little surprise vacation might be nice.”

Clark startles at that; he’d been sure Bruce had forgotten it was their anniversary at all. The shouted questions and shuttering of the cameras fade away as he looks at Bruce fondly, his heart expanding in his chest until it’s almost hard to breathe. Bruce shoots him a sheepish smile.

“I guess he thought I forgot,” he jokes to the press.

“So this is serious. Playboy Wayne is settling down? And with a man?”

Clark feels Bruce still, that hyperfocus directed on the woman who asked the question. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve already promised Clark we’d give the exclusive interview to the Daily Planet—he’s got to have _some_ perks, since I guess he won’t be able to write about me anymore—but let me put it this way: I’ve met his mother, and he’s met my butler. Now, that’s all the questions we have time for. Come on, Clarkie.”

Normally Clark would grimace at the nickname, but he finds himself smiling foolishly instead. He doesn’t seem to be able to _stop_ smiling, even when he trips climbing onto the gangway attached to the yacht.

“All right there, Master Kent?” Alfred asks as he deftly detaches the gangway from the pier.

He’s still grinning, and he’s pretty sure any photos that come out of this will leave him looking like a doofus, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Yes, Alfred. Everything’s great.”

“Very good, Master Kent.”

“Set off whenever you want to, Alfred,” Bruce tells the butler, then grabs Clark’s hand again and surprises him by leading him upstairs to the sundeck instead of downstairs to the stateroom. This boat was twice the size of the yacht they’d used in Malaysia, and it leveled up in terms of tech and amenities as well, from what Clark can tell.

Bruce pulls Clark toward a plush sofa to one side of the bar. “I’m sorry,” he says after they’ve sunk into the cushions.

Clark frowns. “For what?”

He takes Clark’s hand, rubbing his thumb in little distracting circles, before looking up into his eyes. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned our anniversary. If it gets you into any trouble with Perry, I’ll fix it.”

“Bruce.” That overexpanded feeling is back in Clark’s chest. He lifts his hand to cup the other man’s cheek, then slides it up to the nape of his neck to pull him in for a gentle kiss. “It’s not a problem. I didn’t even realize you thought of it as our anniversary too.”

A small smile curves Bruce’s lips, but it’s a rare, true smile and brighter than a beaming grin on just about anyone else. Clark basks a little, in the light of it, and the lightness it fills his insides with. “It’s the anniversary of the night you kissed me while we were standing on my favorite gargoyle on the Gotham Cathedral.”

A laugh bubbles out of Clark’s chest. “I can’t believe you have a favorite gargoyle.”

Bruce’s smile turns sheepish. “It wasn’t my favorite gargoyle. Before.”

And Clark _melts_ , because who would’ve thought the Batman would ever be so sentimental? “ _Bruce_.”

But Bruce, typically, is charging on, determined to cover up the bit of softness he’d revealed with a Batman-shaped hardshell. “Anyway, it was my idea to use your journalist credentials to cover some of the things we’ve had to do for the League, and if White takes it into his head that your objectivity was compromised—”

Clark shuts him up in the most effective way he knows.

He kisses him.

He doesn’t know if he could breathe the essence of his soul into Bruce with a kiss, but he tries. Oh, he tries. Bruce melts into the kiss, body tipping into his own, and, because he’s _Bruce_ , lights that bit of essence like a spark unto life-giving oxygen. And together they are consumed by the flame.

Indeterminable minutes later, Clark lifts his head. He’s pushed Bruce into the cushions of the sofa, their legs entwined, chests heaving. They’re both fully dressed—unusual for them—but he feels naked, his feelings exposed, and he doesn’t have to imagine that Bruce feels the same because it’s in those cobalt eyes, the soft edges of that mouth, tilted up as they might be.

The sun is shining down on them, and despite Clark’s Kryptonian biology, it’s Bruce he’s basking in now, Bruce who’s making him feel… well, like Superman.

It takes a moment to realize they’ve left port. Clark has very good hearing, but he’s missed the sound of the engines revving; now they’re churning away through the sapphire water as they head over to whatever island Bruce has set as their excuse to be in the area.

As if sensing the direction of Clark’s thoughts, Bruce murmurs, “It’ll be at least a few hours before we reach the island.”

There’s clear invitation in Bruce’s tone, but Clark makes his mind swim through the bog of desire to recall that he meant to make a point. “Bruce, believe me when I say I’m not in any trouble, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Perry and I discussed it already. I don’t know what having a ‘favorite’ reporter means in your books, but platonic professional relationships don’t involve checking out the other person’s ass whenever they walk out of a room.”

“Clark.” This time it’s Bruce kissing him into silence. “I said, ‘okay.’” Another kiss. “I trust you to know your job.” A trail of lips up Clark’s jaw. “That you’ll let me know if and when I can help.” Nibbling at his earlobes. “And that you’ll _let_ me help. Or else.” A solid bite that left him moaning. “So are we going to keep talking?” A hand at his belly, trailing lower, unbuttoning Clark’s slacks. “Or are we going to fuck?” That warm, calloused hand encircling his cock.

Bruce strokes Clark at an even pace, and Clark fights the urge to thrust. But he forces himself to be still. “No,” he says.

His lover stops completely. “No?” Bruce’s voice is rough, with desire, but also with just the tiniest bit of doubt.

Clark kisses him, wanting to erase all traces of that part of Bruce that questions whether he is loved, whether he _deserves_ to be loved. Well, it’s a work in progress anyway. “No,” he whispers. “I’m going to take you to bed, and we are going to _make love_.”

Bruce’s eyes are dark with wanting and some emotion Clark can’t name. Slowly, he pulls his hand out of Clark’s pants, buttons him up with trembling fingers. With a touch of superspeed, Clark adjusts their clothing, then he rises and holds out a hand to the man who’s become his whole life. Bruce takes it, then leads Clark into the main stateroom.

“I have a confession to make,” Bruce says after they’ve shut the door, as he’s slowly, tantalizingly unbuttoning his shirt. Revealing that map of scars and the well-toned torso underneath.

“Hmm?” Clark is staring, fumbling with his own clothes, all but salivating at the view.

“We don’t actually have a recon mission in Santa Prisca.”

He can’t seem to make Bruce’s words parse, even when he plays them back in his head. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We don’t actually have a mission in Santa Prisca,” Bruce says. “The boys are handling it. And we wouldn’t be using this boat even if we did, because it requires a crew of at least eight.”

Clark sighs. “Of course it does. So where are we really going?”

“I told you. There’s an island I’m thinking of buying.” Bruce pauses. “I double-checked. No human traffickers, no volcano gods, and no kaiju present. Just you and me.”

He’s… flabbergasted. “You’re _voluntarily_ going on vacation?”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

“Yes.”

“Because it’s our anniversary tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been planning this?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“A few weeks.”

“Because you love me.”

“I—hnn.”

It’s not the most romantic of responses, but Clark knows his grumpy Bat in and out by now. So he drops his shirt, and his pants, and the rest of his clothes really, and wraps his arms around said grumpy Bat before peppering kisses all over his face.

“A few _weeks_?”

“It’s not the easiest thing, getting time off from both our civilian lives _and_ the League.”

“No, but—”

“And I know Perry knows about us, by the way. I had a talk with him about it. Except he didn’t tell me all of that stuff you told me just now.”

Clark’s about to protest, but he stops. “Oh? What did he say?”

“He gave me a shovel talk, or at least the equivalent, in the form of telling me not to break his star reporter. Threatened to sic his _other_ star reporter on me if I did.” Bruce adopts a woebegone look. “I didn’t know I warranted the big guns.”

Clark smirks. “If only he knew he just threatened _Batman_ with the power of Lois Lane.”

“That woman is terrifying.”

“I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Can we stop talking about her? It’s killing my libido.”

“Well,” Clark says, rubbing his nude body sinuously against Bruce’s boxer-clad form. “Can’t have that, can we?”

Bruce doesn’t say much after that, and neither does Clark. Or, rather, neither of them say much that’s coherent, or repeatable in polite company. Nevertheless, the megayacht’s crew is assured several times over the next few hours that the boss is _very_ happy with his newly-outed beau.

It’s just as well Bruce’s sons aren’t present, or they’d be bleaching their ears off.

Later, much later, Clark lies facing Bruce, while the billionaire is boneless and facedown on the king-sized bed. “Hey, Bruce?”

“Mmph.”

“Hey, look at me.”

Bruce’s dark head turns on the pillow so one bleary blue eye can meet Clark’s sparkling one. “How’re you so chipper after three rounds? M’pretty sure you’ll need a Lazarus Pit t’revive me.”

Clark smirks at his grumbling. “Just Kryptonian, I guess.”

“Ugh.”

“No, no, no, don’t go to sleep.”

“Claaarrrrkk,” Bruce whines, in full spoiled billionaire mode.

“I have something to say.”

“Say it already.”

“Come on, turn over first.”

Like a fish, or maybe a walrus, Bruce flops over with absolutely no coordination. Now both those blue eyes are visible. And glaring. “What.”

Clark smiles beatifically. “Nothing. I just love you.”

An arched brow. “I know.”

“Bruuuuuuce!” Now it’s Clark’s turn to whine. “I can’t believe you just Han Soloed me!”

The billionaire smiles, then wraps an arm around Clark and pulls him into a kiss. “I love you too, you sap,” he whispers. Clark pulls Bruce fully on top of him, and their tongues tangle lazily.

Eventually Bruce just snuggles into Clark, and Clark is content to hold the world, safe and sleepy, in his arms.

For long moments, they just breathe together, content in one another.

Then Clark realizes two things. One, they’re floating about three feet off the mattress. And two, he’s getting hard.

“Bruce,” he whispers, “any chance you’re up for round four?”

No response, but for a shifting as Bruce snuggles closer. And Clark gets harder.

“Bruce?”

A snore.

“Bruce?!”


End file.
